An outbreak of ostentation

Call me a grouch with no sense of occasion/fun, but I’ve had it with this new equation of Diwali = spring-cleaning = presentgiving = shopping = consuming. The way we’re going about it, we’re fast headed to that place where most Americans find themselves after Christmas: stressed out and broke. This inane level of spring-cleaning and purchasing that goes by the name of ‘Diwali preparations’ — is it getting worse, or is it just me?

At the risk of sounding like some chronically and terminally nostalgic person, I’ve got to say it: I remember a time when preparing for Diwali involved agood spring-cleaning session, a set of new clothes for everyone, some sweets and savouries… and that was that.

The house cleaning was a chance to run your eye and duster over all your possessions — cleaning, mending, discarding, replacing, rediscovering. Lurking pests and fungus were shown the door, and this way you were sure that nothing scary would jump out at you. It was a great feeling. Once you were done, you had the satisfaction of knowing how things stood in every nook and corner of your home. Every area — the parts that are visible and in regular use, as well as tucked away unseen areas — were examined and blessed with your attention and efforts. And we were all set, or one should say re-set, to enjoy the joys of being a householder. Laxmi would come and have a look and like what she saw, one presumed.

All it needed was a duster, a broom, a bucket of water, possibly some paint, and a bunch of enthusiastic family members. No more. Now we need to get in professionals to tear down our walls, excavate our floors, call in high-tech pest controllers, re-do the sofas, resurface the wardrobes, and generally overdo things in a frenzy of consumption. Though we live in fairly antiseptic urban homes, come Diwali, and we wash and scrub and squander water, hosing down everything in sight as if we’ve just been visited by some epidemic. Of course, now we also need loads of detergent and an array of cleaners, just like our American pals. One thing for the windows, another for the taps, yet another for the floor…and so on and so forth. Only then do we think we’re Laxmi-worthy. It’s as if we’re all suffering from some kind of collective OCD.

And then there’s the shopping. As with so many of our festivals and rituals, we seem to have completely lost track of the original sentiment behind them. And that’s because we’ve been reintroduced to them by the world of advertising and marketing. So now it’s all got to be bigger,better, louder, pricier, and possibly in seductive slo-mo. All orchestrated and choreographed by clever people who’ve got their left hands gesturing hypnotically at you and their right hands in your pocket. Interestingly, today just about every Indian festival and celebration involves getting into your car and hitting the shopping stops/stopping shops. Future generations will grow up to believe that shopping is an integral part of the religious ceremony of Diwali/Dussehra/Padwa/weddings/funerals.

Earlier, we knew that the festival season had begun once the season changed, different constellations appeared in the sky. Today, the bugle call is sounded by shops and stores. They’re the important chaps who flag off the festivities. When you see words like Shopping Hungama/Dhamaka/Frenzy/Fever…you know this whole festival business has become a nationwide outbreak of ostentation. The newspapers too report gleefully that shoppers all over the city are now in stampede mode. We see photographs of stores looking like the general compartment of the 6.03 Churchgate-Virar fast local.

As for exchanges of food and gifts… surely we remember the time, especially in our practical and down-to-earth part of the country, when modest plates filled with sweets and savouries would be swapped, karanjis and chaklis compared and contrasted, and everyone was Happy Diwali. Suddenly now we need to make our houses look like a Bollywood film set, complete with ornate thaalis laden with goodies, designer diyas, overpainted women, and men standing around looking daft and uncomfortable in zardosi kurtas and mojuris and even chunnis for godsake. Open any lifestyle magazine, and you’re bound to find endless, fussy, features on how to turn your home into some kind of lavish production for Diwali, that would make the sets of Devdas look sober and tasteful.

With all this stuff coming at you from every direction, I have moments of weakness when I look guiltily around at my need-painting walls, my need-tending garden, my need-mending gate. I stare into my wardrobe and find several well-worn 9-year-oldjeans. Maybe I need to go out and buy a brand-new pair with zari trim? I watch huge quantities of groceries and mithai being delivered at the neighbour’s and I wonder if Laxmi’s watching my small jar of chakli and shankarpali and saying, “That’s just not good enough.” And I am momentarily gripped with the urge to get with the programme. To rush out and fix it all before Diwali. To shop till I drop. But it’s just a passing thought. I catch the glint of the tiny shiny-feet sticker on my doorstep, and I know, Laxmi will understand.

So I’ll just be all lofty and highminded, and no one’s getting any presents. Of course, if anyone’s planning to gift me stuff, do look for a really good pair of ear-plugs for me and tranquilisers for my phataka-shaken dogs.

■ GOURI DANGE Writes about the love-hate equation that we all have with our city

■ Though we live in fairly antiseptic urban homes, come Diwali, and we wash and scrub and squander water, hosing down everything in sight as if we’ve just been visited by some epidemic. Of course, now we also need loads of detergent and an array of cleaners, just like our American pals

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